


Mary's Blessing

by blaetter



Series: Christian Names [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, epistulae, gentle Watson, letter from the dead wife, soft Holmes, unseen Mary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 04:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10983585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blaetter/pseuds/blaetter
Summary: One comfortable evening at 221B, Watson finds a letter written by Mary before her death.





	Mary's Blessing

It was a warm August Sunday that my Watson found the letter in one of his folders. I was long since busy cataloguing some Chinese tobacco ash when I felt the comfortable silence shift into something tender and heavy. When I looked up, Watson was covering his mouth with his hand and was leaning back in his desk chair. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, displaying his tantalising (at least in my humble opinion) arm hair, long and manly and perfect texture for gripping in times of need. I made sure to be in need often. 

But his eyes were teary, pulling me from my explicit reminiscences, and I was in front of him in moments. I didn't bother speaking: he knows I can deduce what I need to. But he was hiding something this time, out of shame or modesty I was not sure. I knelt on the rug and placed my hand on his knee. 

'Watson, what did you find?' I asked in the gentlest voice I could muster. I had learned that there are times my Watson prefers me to set my detective skills aside, and I was only too happy to please him on this; it was the least I could do, after everything. 

He swallowed and gathered a breath. 'A letter.' He tried to hand it to me, but I pushed it away. 

'Read it to me.'

'I can't, Holmes,' he whispered. 

It was from Mary, then. An old letter from his dead wife. I was unsure about many things in his life during my absence, but there was one thing I was immediately sure of the second I came back: he had loved Mary with his entire heart, and her illness had taken her away from him, and his heart with it. 

He handed it back to me, and this time I took it. 

It was too intimate to read in whole. They had been wedded, after all, and I had been pretending to be dead. I skimmed it, taking care to school my face into no reaction, as this was not the time for my own possessive feelings regarding my companion.

The letter was written before she had died, but not too soon before, judging by her slanted, shaky writing. Skipping every other sentence, I understood what the purpose of the letter was: it was a blessing, an allowance, that Watson love with his whole heart whosoever may come after her. It was more than an admission and awareness of the good doctor’s full heart: No doubt she knew about me, and no doubt she knew how he loved me. She had seen his heart carried away once before, upon my false fall, and she had witnessed that same heart coming to love another, herself. It was a testimony to her own knowing, kind heart to hope he had yet another love in him, as he deserved. I agreed with her wholeheartedly. She couldn’t possibly have known I would be next. I am glad I was. 

Setting the folder letter neatly on the arm of my companion's chair, I focussed my full attention once more on the man I loved. 

This time he seemed to have gathered himself, and I still kneeling, cupped my cheek and spread his thumb across my high cheekbone. 

The sitting room door was locked, as it ever was these days, and the window to the rest of the world was open for a breeze. Still, I had the courage to say, looking into his eyes, 'I love you.' 

He smiled one of his royal smiles. 'She… knew.'

I nodded and leaned my head into his palm, setting my chin on his knee as I looked up at him, imitating a suppliant, and it was never more accurate. 

Watson cleared his throat, the corners of his lips curved in a poor imitation of a smile, and with the fingers of his other hand combed through my unruly hair. (There'd been no reason to slick it back to perfection today. Never mind how I knew he liked seeing me just slightly unkempt while in the privacy of our own quarters.) 

'I had forgotten she had written that,' he said, and this time his smile was real, as my hands cupped his elbows and my eyes fluttered shut. 'At the time, it seemed impossible.' 

My mouth quirked into a smirk. 'A qualifier you often use with me.' 

Instead of a response, he bent over and kissed the top of my head. I inhaled shakily, overcome with emotion. His mere nearness was enough to send me flying, even still. 

'I love you,' he murmured into my hair, kissing it again. I sighed, kissed his knee, and allowed him to embrace me -- reciprocating everything I could -- as much as he wanted. We were impossible, I knew, and beyond blessed.


End file.
